Your Affectionate Friend
by theredrobin
Summary: She could not always be the sensible one.


Author's Notes

Because instead of doing the things I should be, I write.

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**Your Affectionate Friend**

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What had given rise to it exactly she did not rightly understand, nor was it of consequence. All Elinor knew was that she had been folding her dresses and pelisses into her trunk one moment, only to find herself dashing from the house in tears the next.

She supposed it had built up so swiftly, without respite or succor, until it all became too much.

It was abundantly clear that John had no intention of helping them; they would have to make their own way in the world. The fact that they were being forced to leave Norland was distressing enough, but John's wife, it seemed, was doing everything in her power to make it even more so. They were yet in mourning, for God's sake. Surely she must appreciate that none of them would have wish to hear how she intended to make everything they held dear unrecognizable; how painful it was for them?

Marianne thought Elinor cold-hearted, but she was wrong. Her appearance of composure and resignation was nothing more than pretense. Someone had to act as the anchor for their family while they were adrift in their grief, and it fell to her shoulders. It was she who tried to keep her sisters in check so relative peace could be maintained between them and John's family. While her mother went about choosing a new situation, she was the one who had to think practically and ensure they did not exceed their meager income.

Elinor did not resent them for it. How could she? Her poor mother had lost the love of her life and the means by which to live the only way she had ever known in one fell blow. It was all she could do to offer comfort to her girls some days when she was so very unhappy herself. Margaret had just barely left her innocent sphere of dolls and ponies only to be cruelly thrust into one of life's bitterest lessons. As for Marianne, it was in her nature to feel everything intensely, from a prettily-worded sonnet to the servant's lost kitten. Now in the face of real tragedy, what else was to be expected?

And yet…

And yet Elinor needed time to feel too. Her father's death had left her devastated. She could hardly believe that he was truly gone, that never again would she hear his booming laugh echo throughout the corridors, never be able to peek into his study to see him squinting in that endearing way he often did when he found a book passage particularly witty.

Out in the grounds with no one to maintain control for, Elinor wept. The tears she shed came thick and fast, soon making it difficult for her to make her way on. She sank onto one of the stone benches bordering the path along the hedgerows.

Swells of memories that she had been repressing since that unspeakable day at last burst their bank and came crashing upon her in sharp fragments. She could see herself as a little girl, curled up in her father's lap, head pillowed on his shoulder while he read his paper. There was another. He had just returned home from a trip to town, bringing small trinkets for all his daughters; a storybook for Margaret, new sheet music for Marianne, and brushes and paints for her. The three of them giggled and kissed his cheeks, Margaret a bit too young to fully understand why but merrily mimicking her elder sisters all the same as he doubled over to accommodate both their enthusiasm and their deficit in height. Their mother laughingly said, as she had on more than one occasion, that he would spoil them, but his only reply to that half-hearted admonishment would always be a wink that clearly told he thought spoiling to be his prerogative.

The harsh crack of a twig underfoot caused Elinor to start, and she hastily attempted to wipe all traces of her tears away.

"Miss Dashwood?"

Her cheeks grew warm. It was Edward.

For a moment, she only sat staring, ashamed at having been caught. Then she stood rather quickly and forced her mouth into what she could only hope resembled a smile. "Mr Ferrars! It is such a fine day. You should make the most of it and take in a bit of the country on horseback. I was heading back inside myself—" She began to walk towards the house accordingly.

"A moment, please, Eli—Miss Dashwood. It _is_ a fine day, and I had thought to walk. Would you not join me?"

Elinor hesitated, but he seemed to sincerely desire her company and so she could hardly find it in her to refuse. He smiled when she fell into step beside him.

Their walk began in silence, a circumstance for which she was grateful since it gave her the time she so desperately needed to recover her composure. They were beneath the shade of some ancient, gnarled junipers when Edward finally spoke.

"When my father died, I avoided my mother, sister, and brother for nearly a fortnight."

Caught by surprise, she turned to look at him but was met only with his profile while he continued to stare resolutely ahead, talking so quietly she wondered if he had meant to address her at all.

"I was angry with them, I think, for behaving as if nothing had happened, as if he had not just disappeared from our lives forever. I see now…I understand it was just their manner of handling their grief."

She wondered to what purpose he could be telling her all this, but deep in her heart she knew why. _He_ had noticed, for however briefly he had been here, and he wanted her to know that he understood what she was about.

Edward broke from his steady gait and faced her. She felt one of her cold hands become enclosed between both of his, and the warmth of his touch spilled over into her. It was so wholly unexpected that she could hardly think.

He was speaking again, and she brought her attention to what he was saying instead. "If you ever have need of someone to confide in, to listen, I hope you might think of me." He gave a small, tight smile and slowly released his hold on her. "After all, we have become good friends, have we not?"

Elinor felt a curious little pang in her breast as she replied softly, "Yes…I thank you, Mr Ferrars."

So focused was she on quelling the strange fluttering that persisted that she missed entirely the wretchedness that flickered across Edward's features. She could not know that what he longed for above anything else was the freedom to offer her much more than his friendship.

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End Author's Notes

I think I may have gone overboard with the sea imagery there. Uh, I mean, exaggerated.

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_This story is featured at FFNet's "|| The Vault ||" community archive, and at the Jane Austen FanFiction Index._


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